


Small Talk

by pocketsizedquasar



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19320988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsizedquasar/pseuds/pocketsizedquasar
Summary: In which whalemen smoke and tell stories and ask far too many questions.





	Small Talk

The people of Nantucket and New Bedford know of Ishmael. If they haven't met him, they've heard of him, heard of the wreck of the  _ Pequod _ , heard of his captain's fatal vengeance. Amongst other whalemen he's become something of a fable.   
Those who ship with him quickly learn of his oddities, his habits, his peculiarities. The circle of swirling tattoos that snake around his wrist and peek out from under his sleeve, that glassy look in his eyes and a name that always seems to linger on the tip of his tongue. He's quite a talker; he'll jabber off to anyone who will listen and sometimes people who won't. He's told the story of the Pequod dozens of times over by now, but he'll still patiently oblige anyone who asks. He is young but his eyes are weighed down by age, all cold glass and blank stares. No matter how genial and lighthearted his stories are, he never quite shakes that heavy shroud. His shipmates say he looks like a man already dead.    
Ishmael talks a lot about everything but himself - he'll gladly give any half-drunk listener a story, or two, or ten. But ask him about himself and he dances off, he glances away, he deflects.   
  
A pale, freckled greenhand, all pink skin and big green eyes, once asks him, "What 'bout you? You married?"   
They sit over the forecastle, on a balmy tropical night. A pipe changes hands as the smoke changes lungs, the conversation airy and meandering as the smoke on the sea breeze.    
Ishmael, ever the talker, will have nothing to give here but a small smile, a ring of smoke, the words "I was, once."   
The smoke passes along. "What, you divorced?"   
"No, too young for that-- a widower, then?"   
He gives the slightest of nods. Whalemen were never particularly known for their tact.    
"Oh come now, then, tell us!"   
"Bet she was  _ nice _ ," Freckles again.    
"A smart lass fer a guy like you."   
They are laughing now, the air around full of smoke and sweat and salt.    
"Mm-- tell me! How'd ye get a girl t'listen t'ye  _ talk _ so much!"   
And there it is again, that soft smile, that puff of smoke, that sideways glance. He answers them in every way but verbal.    
_ Yes, he was nice _ , he says,  _ he was the kindest person I knew. Yes, he was smart, and funny, and he would listen to me ramble on and on like there was nothing he'd rather hear.  _   
He makes no effort to change the subject, only watches with that sad smile of his, those glassy and heavy eyes. Anyone caring enough to watch (none of them were) would see him run a finger along the pattern of his wrist.    
"Yer a strange man, Ishmael, a strange one if I ever knew any."   
To that, he will just chuckle, passing the pipe along.    
"You have no idea."   



End file.
